


The Picture of Anthony J Crowley

by idareu2bme



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale thinks so highly of Crowley, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Besotted!Crowley, Canon Compliant, Flirting, Fluff, I Wrote This For Me, M/M, Post-Canon, Snippets, The literature isnt dumb my references are, bibliophile, but you can read it too if you want, canon style shipping, dumb literature references, im sorry Oscar Wilde, meaningful smiles, smart!crowley, soft, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idareu2bme/pseuds/idareu2bme
Summary: When something or *someone* in particular is always on your mind, you start seeing them in everything.Aziraphale seems to think Crowley was the inspiration for many of the heroes in books he's read. Crowley is starting to think Aziraphale has lost his marbles because not a single one of those characters has much if anything in common with him.





	The Picture of Anthony J Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/gifts).



> Huge shout out to Brodeurbunny, who continues to be the MVP, and helped me research a bunch of random literature for this silly little fanfic... most of which didn't even end up in the fic cuz research be like that.

“Pffbbtt,” Crowley hissed in disdain. He had just walked into the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop unannounced to find Aziraphale sitting in that favourite chair of his reading a book. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to find Aziraphale in that position. Truly, it was a comforting thing to see; Aziraphale looking so soft and cozy even while sitting more primly than most. And, of course, Crowley, being the demon he was, always liked seeing his angel luxuriating in his own guilty pleasures. It was _what_ he was reading that Crowley didn’t like.  

  
  
“Oscar Wilde, _again_ ,” grumbled Crowley.

 

Aziraphale’s face twitched.

 

“What’s wrong with Oscar Wilde?” asked Aziraphale, the plaintive tone somehow playful.

 

“We’re finally living in a time where people write books that are actually readable and you’re sitting here reading those rubbish, old things,” said Crowley with more snarl than the situation probably warranted, but he always got a touch uncomfortable when Aziraphale was near anything _Oscar Wilde_.

 

“Rubbish?” breathed Aziraphale.

 

“The flowery, run-on sentences,” groaned Crowley before plopping down on the chaise across from Aziraphale and stretching out dramatically. “The horrible overuse of adjectives,” he continued, grabbing a throw pillow, heavy with down filling, and giving it an angry shake. “The. need. to. make. every. last. trivial. thing _meeean_ something else entirely. The gothic theatrics of it all. AUGH. If I could get sick, they’d make me _ill_!”

 

Aziraphale smiled and tilted his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy. Crowley groaned louder.

 

“I didn’t think you read,” said Aziraphale, looking much too pleased for someone being criticised.

 

“I _can_ read,” said Crowley with a little shrug against the worn fabric of the antique chaise. “I just don’t like to --especially not that gobbly gook you fawn over all day!”

 

“I’m surprised _you_ don’t like ‘ _gothic theatrics_ ’ as you called it,” said Aziraphale with a pointed look that Crowley chose to ignore for the sake of their friendship.

 

“If you want to tell a story, _just tell a story_ ,” said Crowley to the ceiling. “No need to try prettying it up with long words and strange metaphors. You’re just trying to make yourself sound more educated and cultured than everyone else. Classic Literature; hnnff, classism and torture! Seems like one of ours.”

 

Aziraphale tutted.

 

“Ah, that reminds me,” Aziraphale said, face suddenly brightening. He set down the blasted book he’d been reading atop a precarious stack of books on the end table next to him and twisted around to pick up a smaller book from elsewhere. “I just recently procured a new set of rather rare books, all translated into English in the 1800s.”

 

Aziraphale paused as if hoping Crowley would react in some way to that. Crowley raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses and motioned with his hand for Aziraphale to go on.

 

“One is titled ‘The Worm King’,” said Aziraphale with a strange sort of knowing smile as if he thought they were both in on some joke. Crowley waited.

 

“The Worm King,” repeated Aziraphale, leaning forward a bit on his wingback. “Written by Lucien Hardouin.”

 

The words hung in the air between them for a few beats. Crowley had no idea what Aziraphale was getting at.

 

“Okay,” he finally sighed before sitting up. “I’ll bite, who’s Lucien Hardouin?”

 

“ _Who’s Lucien Hardouin_?” squeaked Aziraphale, smile dropping. “I thought you’d know!”

 

“Why would I know some old, French author?” asked Crowley.

 

“Aha! So you _do_ know him!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

 

“What?”

 

“You just said he was French,” said Aziraphale looking pleased with himself.

 

“ _Lucien Hardouin_ ?” said Crowley over-pronouncing the vowels in an exaggerated and nasally accent that he was certain Aziraphale would call a crime against France itself. “The _name_ is French. I took a logical leap. I don’t _know_ the guy. What’s this about, Angel?”

 

Crowley eyed Aziraphale curiously as the angel dropped his shoulders in what looked like disappointment.

 

“I thought perhaps you had associated with Lucien Hardouin once upon a time,” said Aziraphale with a little frown. “There’s a character in the book that reminded me of you so much that I was certain Hardouin had met you at some point and used you for inspiration.”

 

“What!?” snapped Crowley, lunging for the book. “Give me that! Which character, what’s their name?” He demanded as he quickly flipped through the pages of the book.

 

“Oh, do be careful with the pages,” said Aziraphale. “Didn’t I say it was a rare book?”

 

“ _All_ your books are rare books,” grumbled Crowley, glancing up in time to see a satisfied smile making its way onto Aziraphale’s face. The angel had finally gotten the reaction he wanted, apparently. Crowley grumbled and handed the book back to him. “Anyway,” huffed Crowley, calming down. “I don’t know any writers named Lucien Hardouin, so it’s all coincidence.”

 

“Huh,” said Aziraphale with a shake of his head. “Isn’t that funny. Well, the character definitely reminds me of you.”

 

“Is he some sort of deliciously evil character, then?” asked Crowley, going back to affecting a mostly disinterested pose even while not able to stop himself from asking.

 

“What!? Of course not! He’s lovely,” said Aziraphale.

 

“Doesn’t sound much like me, then,” said Crowley with another shrug. Curious as he suddenly was as to what this character was like to remind Aziraphale of him, he decided it better, especially given his earlier outburst, to drop the subject immediately.

 

\---------

 

“So, if you really didn’t inspire Lucien Hardouin’s hero in ‘The Worm King’,” said Aziraphale, voice muffled by the kerchief he had over his nose and mouth while he dusted the top shelves of his bookcases with an outdated looking feather duster. “Perhaps you were the inspiration behind Breac MacNiven in ‘The Lonely Castle’.”

 

“I’m not familiar with that one, either,” said Crowley, where he was holding the step ladder steady.

 

It had been a few days since the whole conversation about his being the muse for the Frenchman’s book and Crowley had hoped it wouldn’t come up again. Still, he was glad there was at least no further speak of _Oscar Wilde_.

 

“It’s about a man who studies the stars,” said Aziraphale, reaching out a touch too far and losing his balance. Crowley quietly miracled his centre of gravity back to where it was supposed to be before he could fall.  “He is invited out to an old castle up north far from the city,” continued Aziraphale none-the-wiser. “Where he can do further research and better see the night sky.”

 

“Sounds riveting,” deadpanned Crowley.

 

“Yes, well,” replied Aziraphale, voice turning a touch snobbish like he didn’t appreciate Crowley’s sass. “While he was there he fell for the lady of the castle and… oh, the plot doesn’t really matter in this case. I just thought the way he was written sounded a lot like you. He dressed all in dark clothes and had fiery red hair and quite an interesting personality. He could come off as quite rude, but underneath it all, he was really rather thoughtful.”

 

“The dark clothes and red hair is accurate, at least,” said Crowley with a huff. “But why do you even believe there are characters in stories that are based on me?”

 

“Well, you’ve been around since the beginning of the world” said Aziraphale. “And you are rather a distinct person with a, uh, inspiring presence. Why wouldn’t some writer at some point in time be inspired to use your for one of their characters?“

 

“Inspiring presence?” repeated Crowley with a confused frown. “What does that even mean?”

 

“I don’t know, you… you stand out in a crowd,” said Azirphale, waving his duster around in the air causing a clump of dust to fall onto Crowley’s nose.

 

Crowley sneezed in a full-body jerking motion and almost threw his neck out trying to keep his hands still where he was holding Aziraphale’s step ladder.

 

“Why can’t you just miracle the dust away like a normal angel?” he complained.

 

\---------

 

“‘Paradise Lost’?” asked Aziraphale one afternoon apropos of nothing, but Crowley recognized his new game straightaway.

 

“A little on the nose, that one,” he said, purposely keeping his tone bored.

 

“Quite,” agreed Aziraphale, disappointed.

 

\---------

 

“Long John Silver!” exclaimed Aziraphale with sudden excitement, startling Crowley from his afternoon nap. He was stretched out on Aziraphale’s white and red picnic blanket and had been peacefully dozing in the warm afternoon sunlight while Aziraphale sat beside him reading one of his books. It had been nice until Aziraphale had opened his fool mouth.

 

“What?” snapped Crowley without even opening his eyes. “A large oaf of a pirate?”

 

“Oaf!?” cried Aziraphale and Crowley did open his eyes at that. Aziraphale was wearing one of his delightfully exaggerated facial expressions and looking at Crowley with shocked dismay. It was adorable and Crowley’s lips twitched without his permission. Aziraphale obviously noticed it because the non-smile was enough to have him shaking his head and smiling back.

 

“You’ve obviously never _read_ Treasure Island if you’d call him an oaf,” he said in a tone that sounded as if he were comforting himself with that statement. “Long John Silver is sharp and cunning, and while you definitely don’t _look_ anything like how I imagined him from his description, you have to admit there are a lot of similarities between you and him. It’s all a bit obvious, really. There’s even the whole thing where he mentors the boy while having his own hidden reasons for doing so, but in the end he cares for him and leaves his--”

 

“That’s not exactly how it went down with us and Warlock, though, is it?” cut in Crowley. “It was a little bit more _something_ and then we found Adam.”

 

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale. “Still, Long John is quite an interesting character --he’s the bad guy, but you wish him well in the end.”

 

“Do you wish me well, Angel?” asked Crowley, turning his face back to the sun and closing his eyes.

 

“Of course,” sounded Aziraphale’s voice almost sounding offended at the notion that he ever wouldn’t.

 

“Then stop with this ludicrous game!” Crowley groaned.

 

“It’s fun, Crowley,” argued Aziraphale with a small chuckle before patting him on the knee.

 

Crowley’s breath stuttered at Aziraphale’s touch, but he forced himself not to visibly react.

 

“I highly doubt you’ll find many characters _actually_ inspired by me,” said Crowley. “I’ve made it a rule to _avoid_ writers, they’re a bunch of perverts and plagiarists. That bit with that Shakespeare fellow only served to prove my opinion of the lot. Besides,” Crowley drawled. “I bet that of the two of us, you’re the one with the most characters to your name... being the author groupie you are, and all.”

 

Aziraphale sputtered indignantly.

 

Crowley cracked an eye open and smirked.

 

\---------

 

“Say, Crowley,” spoke Aziraphale as they walked together down the street. “Did you ever meet Lord Byron?”

 

They were on their way to mail some packages. Apparently, Aziraphale actually _did_ sell books out of his shop instead of just collect them like the _miraculously_ independently wealthy person he was.

 

“Aziraphale,” warned Crowley. “You had better not be saying what I think you’re saying.”

 

“Well, I…”

 

“You honestly think I could be the inspiration behind _that_?”

 

“Behind what?” asked Aziraphale faux innocently, “Lord Byron has written a good many things.”

 

“What other character could you possibly mean?” said Crowley. “I know your mind went there. You’ve already asked me about Paradise Lost, afterall. You know there are _other_ demons with _those_ sorts of jobs. Succubus and Incubus and whathaveyous. I go in more for the stirring up of general chaos.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t saying you _actually_ _did_ those things,” said Aziraphale. “And Lord Byron’s version is much more… modern than that old Spanish play, and you do kind of give off that… uh… appeal?”

 

“You find me appealing?” asked Crowley feeling daring enough to bump his shoulder against Aziraphales as he said it.

 

“No! I mean, yes. But, well… what I mean is…” stuttered Aziraphale, flailing and then clutching tightly to his brown paper packaged books. “Well, you _do_ have a sort of walk.”

 

“What sort of walk?”

 

“You know,” said Aziraphale, waving his hand. “ _That_ sort of walk.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Crowley, nearly tripping over his feet. Now that he was paying attention to how he was walking, he suddenly felt like he had forgotten how. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I walk,” he argued, even as he tripped again.

 

“Oh, my dear, of course there’s nothing _wrong_ with the way you walk,” said Aziraphale. “It's just a rather… distinct sort of… saunter? You know?”

 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Aziraphale,” said Crowley. “And no, I never met your Lord Byron.”

 

\---------

 

“Did you ever know François-Marie Arouet?” asked Aziraphale one cloudy morning just as Crowley approached him. They were meeting in front of the cafe where they had planned to eat breakfast that day.

 

“I wouldn’t expect you to be a fan of Voltaire what with his opinions on religion and God and what-have-you,” said Crowley without missing a beat.  
  
He felt largely proud of himself for the pleased smile Aziraphale flashed at him in reward for having recognized the name.

 

“Oh, not a fan, really, no,” said Aziraphale with a small shake of his head. His smile turned a touch guilty. “Still, he was an intelligent chap and posed a lot of thoughtful questions. He wasn’t scared of difficult topics, so I could imagine you two getting on at times. Maybe you met for a drink and had colourful discussions.”

 

“I told you before,” said Crowley, leaning on his umbrella like a cane. “I try to avoid writers.”

 

“Yes, but he was more than a writer, wasn’t he?” asked Aziraphale.

 

Crowley shrugged.

 

\---------

 

“How about Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Crowley threw his head back and cackled. The sudden noise startled a few nearby ducks.

 

“What was that about?” breathed Aziraphale.

 

They were sitting together on the particular park bench that Crowley thought of as theirs. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale to see he was looking back at him with a truly startled expression. Crowley laughed again.

 

“It’s too good,” he said, shaking his head. “Nevermind, you probably don’t want to know.”

 

“Now you _have_ to tell me,” pressed Aziraphale.

 

“Let’s just say I had a hand in the popularity of that particular character, but it had nothing to do with being _an inspiration_ ,” said Crowley.

 

“What does _that_ mean?”

 

“Drop it, Angel,” warned Crowley even while chuckling to himself.

 

\-------

 

“What about that play,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully one evening as they were driving through London in Crowley’s Bentley. “Do you remember it?”

 

“There’s been a number of plays,” said Crowley, mentally reaching for that cool exterior he always tried to adopt when he worried he would otherwise look overly invested in what Aziraphale was about to say.

 

He couldn't help but be intrigued. So far, Aziraphale’s suggestions of characters that might have been based on Crowley had cast him in some rather interesting lights. There had been an astronomer of sorts, a devil who was strangely sympathizable, a cutthroat pirate who ended up caring more for his charge than his original goals, an infamous womanizer(!?!?), and, well, their last two conversations on the topic made it sound like Aziraphale saw him as an intellectual. All-in-all, it had been a roller coaster of characterizations.

 

“Yes, but remember that one play about the man who was lost at sea and his brother who went searching for him,” said Aziraphale.

 

“The whiny, desperate man who was scared of getting on a boat?” asked Crowley with distaste. “I didn’t like that play, no humour in it.”

 

“The brother, though,” squeaked Aziraphale, throwing his hands out to brace himself as Crowley took a hard left in front of oncoming traffic.

 

Crowley grinned.

 

“What about the brother?” he asked while Aziraphale visibly tried to collect himself.

 

“He could have been based on you,” explained Aziraphale through a shaky exhale. “Everyone else was cruel to the man because they saw him as weak, but the brother wasn’t. He might have been rough around the edges, but he didn’t judge his brother. And he was so loyal, he would do anything for him.”

 

“Right,” said Crowley after a long pause. He let the Bentley slow down to a more ‘acceptable’ speed and swallowed dryly before glancing sideways at Aziraphale. “Well, I don’t think of you as a brother.”

 

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Aziraphale primly.

 

Crowley choked on air.

 

\---------

 

“Mr. Darcy?” asked Aziraphale one day over tea. His voice was a touch squeaky as if he already knew he shouldn’t say it even while _actually saying it_ .

  
  
“MISTER Darcy!?” exclaimed Crowley, slamming down his teacup. “Mister DARCY!?”

 

“Well, he’s… he’s tall and handsome, but a bit of a moody pratt,” offered Aziraphale, speaking quickly. “Sure, he doesn’t come off so great at first, but then when you get to know him he’s…”

 

“Don’t say it!” growled Crowley. “Don’t you dare s--”

 

“..kind.”

 

Crowley stood up abruptly, bumping the table causing all the porcelain and silver to clank musically. Aziraphale was already wincing like he expected Crowley to lunge at him. Crowley glared before turning dramatically away and storming out of the room, the entire restaurant sitting in stunned silence.

 

He paused just outside the front door when a thought struck him. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open just a smidge. He turned around and walked right back in.

 

“Did you call me handsome?” he asked Aziraphale when he reached their table.

 

Aziraphale looked up at him with wide eyes. Crowley loomed.

 

“Uh…” breathed Aziraphale before smiling nervously. “I- yes, I suppose I did.”

 

Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses, but, after a moment, he sat back down at the table.

 

“‘Pride and Prejudice’ is a bit pedestrian for you, don’t you think?” he asked levelly as he picked up his teacup again. “So are most of these examples you’ve been giving, come to think of it,” he added while studying the spidery fractures on the side of his teacup. He must have made them earlier when he’d slammed it down. He miracled it back to rights before looking up at Aziraphale.

 

“I thought you were a collector of _rare_ books,” he said with a lifted eyebrow. “Everyone and their dog has heard of ‘Treasure Island’, ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ and… ugh… ‘Pride and Prejudice’.”

 

“Quite right,” said Aziraphale with a nod. “I’ve been looking in much too obvious of places, I should redouble my efforts and--”

 

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” groaned Crowley, setting down his teacup --carefully this time-- to rub his hand down his face in frustration. “I honestly wish you’d drop this, Angel.”

 

“Why’s that, dear?” asked Aziraphale, voice suddenly gentled.

 

Crowley looked up at the change of tone. Aziraphale’s eyebrows were knit together and he looked almost concerned. Crowley sat up straighter in his seat, he must have been too plaintive with his last statement. He gave Aziraphale the crooked grin that he knew showed off his sharp canines. It was a grin that he had long ago learned flustered Aziraphale and he tried not to use it too often lest it lose its impact, but just then seemed like a good time to bring it out.

 

“It’s just embarrassing how far off you are with all these characters,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s change the subject.”

 

“As you wish,” said Aziraphale, though he had a calculating look on his face.

 

Crowley pursed his lips and added another lump of sugar to his tea for something to do.

 

\---------

 

It had been a few weeks and Aziraphale hadn’t brought up any more possible characters. Crowley was starting to let his guard down. Of course, then he walked into what some might call his ‘living room’ after giving his plants their daily spritzing and threatening to find Aziraphale had pulled out another Oscar Wilde book. Crowley stopped dead in his tracks and swallowed. He squinted at the cover and let out the breath he didn’t actually need when he realized it wasn’t _the_ book.

 

“Back on that Oscar Wilde garbage, are we?” he asked flippantly before moving toward the kitchen where he kept very few edible items. He pulled out his brandy and two tumblers. “You must have really liked the guy.”

 

“Oh, I… I never met him, to be quite honest,” said Aziraphale, setting down the book.

 

“I thought you had,” lied Crowley as he poured out drinks for them. “What with how dedicated a fan you are and how you like to support writers while they’re actually around.”

 

“Yes, unfortunately I missed him quite completely,” said Aziraphale. “And it is really too bad considering how he went. He could have used a miracle.”

 

Crowley brought the drinks to the living room. Aziraphale set the book on the arm of the geometric couch and smiled almost nervously up at Crowley.

 

“The Happy Prince and Other Tales,” read Crowley out loud as he handed him one of the tumblers. The book looked like it had been printed very recently. “I thought you had an old blue hardcover of that one.”

 

“Oh, I do,” said Aziraphale smiling. He always looked so happy when he was able to talk about his books, so Crowley often humoured him and asked. “But it is a much too precious copy to tote around willy nilly...”

 

“Willy nilly,” murmured Crowley to himself.

 

“...so I bought a newer edition for reading purposes.”

 

“Ah,” said Crowley simply before taking a slow drink.

 

He sat next to Aziraphale in silence, not having anything to say and mostly just enjoying being in his company. They spent most days together now, but it didn’t get old. After more than 6000 years of wishing to spend more time with Aziraphale, Crowley was sure finally getting that time with him would never lose its lustre.

 

“You know, it’s an interesting thing,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully, his tone speculative in a way that had Crowley immediately taking back his last thought. “You were around in the late 1800s, weren’t you? I’m pretty sure you were in the area in the 1880s and 90s. I, on the other hand, was busy elsewhere. But wouldn’t it be something if you’d come across Oscar Wilde at some point without realizing.”

 

“Wuh! Pfft!” exclaimed Crowley. “Whuh--th… there’s a-uh lot of people in London even back then.”

 

“Oh yes, of course,” said Aziraphale innocently. “But you were in Chelsea even then, right?”

 

Crowley groaned and slumped further on the couch.

 

“Have you been playing with me this whole time?” he moaned. “Were you working your way up to this all these months?”

 

“What?” asked Aziraphale.

 

“Oh, don’t play coy,” growled Crowley. “You figured it out and you know it. Go on, say it. Let’s get it over with.”

 

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“The whole game you’ve been playing, seeing if characters were based on me,” exclaimed Crowley, leaping to his feet and gesturing wildly. “You knew all along that Oscar Wilde wrote a character after me! You decided to torture me with it because you’re mad that I met him when you hadn’t!”

 

“Honestly Crowley!” exclaimed Aziraphale, getting to his feet as well.

 

Crowley froze when Aziraphale took a threatening step into his space, his sweet face was pinched in anger and his round shoulders were squared like he was ready to fight. Crowley couldn’t help but feel slightly weak in the knees at the image. So... that was a thing that he didn’t realize was a… _thing..._ for him... about Aziraphale. Crowley meeped.

 

“How dare you think I would be so, so underhanded and so… bitter! I would never!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “I had no idea you had known Oscar Wilde. I was just enjoying talking to you about literature! I hadn’t realized you were so knowledgeable in the area and it had been such a treat to talk with you about it. I never would be so petty as t-- oh! _Oh_.”

 

“Don’t ‘ _oh’_ me,” said Crowley feeling another bout of panic try to climb up his throat. “I don’t like the sound of that ‘oh’. Whatever you’re thinking, that’s _not_ what happened.”

 

“Which character was based on you, Crowley?” asked Aziraphale with a little smirk.

 

Crowley let out a long-suffering huff and dropped his shoulders.

 

“Dorian Grey,” he mumbled.

 

“DORIAN GREY?” exclaimed Aziraphale with a laugh. “Is that a joke?”  

 

“Hey, I thought said I was handsome,” pouted Crowley sticking out his bottom lip, but frowning at himself when he realized he had done so.

 

“Yes, but not in a narcissistic way,” said Aziraphale.

 

“Pfft,” laughed Crowley. “Do you see this outfit?” he asked, gesturing down his body. “Do you honestly think it was put together with pure intentions?”

 

“Well not _pure_ intentions, you’re a demon after all.”

 

“And what about the way I walk?” asked Crowley. “I distinctly remember you saying I walked a _certain_ way.”

 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Crowley grinned sharply when he noticed his cheeks growing pink.

 

“You remember that,” said Aziraphale weakly.

 

“Angel, I remember everything you say,” said Crowley in the smarmiest voice he could muster. “Especially when it’s about me.”

 

“Stop that,” grumbled Aziraphale. “So you really want me to think you're like Dorian Grey, do you?”

 

“Well, he _was_ written after me,” said Crowley, lifting his chin.

 

“So, you’re a spineless innocent easily manipulated into wrong-doing?” asked Aziraphale tilting his head to the side and giving Crowley a cheeky look.

 

“Woh-uh-ah-um,” started Crowley before falling silent and simply frowning helplessly.

 

“I thought not,” said Aziraphale with a satisfied nod.

 

“W-uh-Well,” Crowley tried again. “It isn't like I actually read the blasted book. And the man never actually got to _know_ me.”

 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale nodding and smiling sweetly. “Because if he did, he would know you are much too intelligent and self-aware to ever be so easily manipulated.”

 

Crowley’s face was beginning to feel warm. They both knew just how easily manipulated he was by one particular being. He cursed under his breath.

 

“I think I was simply the muse for the later parts with the painting and the debauchery and whatnot,” said Crowley.

 

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale, sitting back down on the couch.

 

\----------

 

“I still can’t believe you were the inspiration for Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Grey,” said Aziraphale with a small chuckle as they walked together through the city park one sunny afternoon later that week. “I wonder what other authors you inspired.”

 

“Oh for… for Heaven’s sake,” groaned Crowley. “You’re still on this? You’ve learned my dirty secret, can’t you leave well enough alone?”

 

“I’m just curious,” said Aziraphale. “That particular character wasn’t the least bit satisfying as someone to have been based off you.”

 

“Well, there was only ever just that one,” said Crowley, glaring menacingly at a few swans who looked like they might cause them some trouble. “At least that I know of.”

 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps we should fix that.”

 

“What? You want me to start hanging out with writers and hope one of them writes about me?”

 

“No, no,” said Aziraphale. “But, you should know, I've been thinking that perhaps I could try my hand at it. Writing, I mean.”

 

Crowley stopped and turned to Aziraphale with raised eyebrows.

 

“Oh really?” he asked.

 

“What do you think?” asked Aziraphale looking a touch shy. “With Heaven sort of ignoring me at the moment, I have the time. Do you think I should?”

 

“Absolutely,” said Crowley. “I think it is a fantastic idea.”

 

Aziraphale looked down with a happy little smile that made bugs wriggle in Crowley’s stomach.

 

“You could be _my_ muse,” said Aziraphale, looking up at Crowley from under his eyelashes in a way that could only be described as flirtatious.

 

“The Picture of Anthony J Crowley,” Crowley managed to say jokingly despite his heart leaping into his throat in response.

 

“Pfft,” huffed Aziraphale, starting forward again. “I’m certain I could cast you in a much better and more accurate light than as some self-serving playboy.”

 

“Oh yeah?” asked Crowley following right along with him. “And how would you write me, dear Angel?”

 

Aziraphale pinked satisfyingly at Crowley’s addition of ‘dear’ to the pet name. They walked a few steps in silence before Aziraphale stooped to pick up a black feather laying on the ground.

 

“A beautiful black swan who doesn't know his value, perhaps?” he offered, holding the black feather out to Crowley. His cheeks grew even pinker as he spoke.

 

Crowley cleared his throat feeling awkward. His pulse had picked up exponentially and, though the day was sunny, it wasn’t hot enough for him to be sweating as much as he suddenly was. He swallowed heavily before speaking.

 

“Sounds derivative. Are you saying I was an ugly duckling once?” he teased as he took the offered feather. That his voice came out level was no small miracle.

 

“A wily old serpent with a heart of gold, then,” said Aziraphale.

 

“More believable, since my heart belongs to an angel,” replied Crowley with a smile much more sweet than any that had crossed his face before it. “But that’s much too literal, you’ll need to think of something else.”

 

Aziraphale stopped and stared at him with wide eyes and a wondering frown.

 

“Crowley,” he breathed.

 

Crowley's smile turned brittle. He looked down at the feather he was holding pinched between his finger and thumb. The sun was reflecting on the black barbules making them shimmer an oily blue.

 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, this time more pleading.

 

Crowley looked up.

 

“You know, I fully support your plan to start writing your own books,” said Crowley, deciding to ignore how forward he’d just been. “But if the last few months have proven anything, it’s that you’re a terrible judge of my character. You'll never get me right if you plan on inserting me into your stories. You have way too convoluted of an opinion of me.”

 

“Oh be quiet, you wonderful thing,” said Aziraphale with a smile so big and bright that it threatened to shatter his face. “Let's go back to your place.”

 

Crowley's eyebrows raised and his mouth dropped open. He closed it a second later and cleared his throat.

 

“Whatever you like, dear Angel,” he said, softly.


End file.
